


Close But No Cigar

by creepymura



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Bad People, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-04-24 10:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19171342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepymura/pseuds/creepymura
Summary: "Perhaps we can figure out some sort of agreement, hm? Between the two of us."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> third person, jer's perspective

"You wanted to see me, Mr Blaire?"

"Come sit down. And shut the door behind you."

Waylon hovers in the open doorframe for a second of obvious discomfort, briefly looking back into the busy hallway, before doing what he's told. Following behind his boss into the clinically clean office and sitting down on the other side of the desk when he'd given the nod to do so.

"I've gotten some troubling feedback from HR, Mr Park." Jeremy leans back in his seat, steepling his fingers and staring at the other man with a raised brow. "Says you've been complaining about how we run things here."

Waylon prickles in his seat and the hands in his lap clasp and unclasp nervously.

He probably knew that he was going to be called to Jeremy's office when he put in his complaint, and yet still wasn't prepared for the obvious backlash he'd get from it. Jeremy was always satisfied by the discomfort of others, but when it's Waylon's discomfort, it feels even better. 

"I-I didn't mean any disrespect to the Murkoff Corporation, Mr Blaire." Waylon starts nervously, keeping his gaze locked down to his feet. Jeremy can feel his lip curl in a sneer as he watches him squirm, and it's almost pleasurable in a sick kind of way. "I've just been asking about it for some time and..." He lets out an unsteady breath, though still refuses to make eye contact. "Well, I'd like to speak to my wife again."

"Oh yes, the wife." Jeremy attempts a human-sounding chuckle. "Lisa, was it?"

"Yes, sir," Waylon says with a nod, finally looking back to Jeremy, a twitch of a smile on his lips.

"Ya know, I always like hearing about my employee's families. Wives, husbands, kids. The lot of it." Jeremy continues, lying through his teeth as he stands to his feet and walks away from his desk, a meandering stroll that makes him appear casual. Waylon's gaze follows him as he paces to a small trolley that holds an expensive bottle of good bourbon and several glasses meant for entertaining clients and other supervisors. "Never had the time to have one of my own, of course." He laughs again as he pours two hefty glasses. He takes a quick swig from the bottle before pacing back to Waylon and offering him one of them.

"Tell me about her."

Waylon hesitates for a moment, obviously confused by the seemingly kind gesture, before he reaches out for the glass, with a nod and an appreciative smile as Jeremy sits on his desk.

It takes a while for Waylon to get talking properly, his first anecdotes murmurs and mumbles between sips of the bourbon, but his tone quickly speeds up as he continues uninterrupted. A warm smile on his face as he talks about his family, reminiscing about memories.

Jeremy doesn't listen to a single word he says.

When he squints at him and looks at him in the right way, his head cocked, Waylon doesn't even really look like a man. The pointed but somehow delicate features, the total lack of any muscle definition to his body, the strangely effeminate gestures when he talks, all traits which add to a female fantasy in Jeremy's brain. And of course, the long blonde hair, stuffed into a low ponytail, the pale pink lips, the slight curve and swell of his ass and hips, doesn't help at all either.

To think this guy has a fucking wife and kids makes his mind reel.

Jeremy isn't sure if Waylon is actually that good looking (he's fucked actresses and supermodels for fuck's sake), or if he's just so deprived of sex that he'd take anyone who looked even remotely fuckable as an option.

Half the men in this place are the same, though they're not as good at hiding their desire as Jeremy is.

It isn't a surprise that some of Waylon's complaints are rooted in a sexual nature. Less surprising that Jeremy jerked off to a few of the sordid confessions he got from grilling the employees behind these accusations. 

Some the shit these guys are thinking about would be enough to put them away, but Jeremey can't pretend that it's arousing.

And Waylon's sitting in his office, trying to make himself appear as small as possible. His body language embodies a feminine energy he hasn't seen in fucking months. His big, brown eyes crinkle as he tells an anecdote that Jeremy can't hear. A hand with painted fingernails reach up to elegantly sweep a strand of coiling blond hair behind a pierced ear.

Jeremy feels his jaw clench and a burn in the pit of his stomach that makes his dick ache.

"And, well." Waylon is suddenly audible as Jeremy snaps back to reality, quickly grounding himself with a much-needed swig from his glass. "Matty's birthday is coming up and I was hoping-"

"Mr Park, you know we're approaching a critical stage in our advancements here," Jeremy says, hyper-aware of his dry mouth and his inability to take his eyes off of Waylon's lips. Imagining how they'd look stretched around his dick. Fuck. He takes an unsteady breath and attempts to suppress the imagery. "We need everyone to be one hundred percent dedicated to the project, and that includes you."

"I understand that, sir." Waylon sighs through his nose and sits up, taking up space and attempting to make himself appear more authoritative, more masculine, but the effort almost makes Jeremy laugh. "But is a ten-minute phone-call to my son on his eighth birthday really that much to ask for?"

"Well, Waylon." Jeremy starts, sitting back slightly, legs subtly spreading in a masculine way that takes up space. Waylon seems put off by his use of his first name and his sudden assertion of dominance, but that just makes Jeremy feel even more powerful. "If you're having doubts about Murkoff and our methods, we can certainly terminate your contract with us."

"What?" Waylon's thin eyebrows knit together in confusion and he sits forward in his chair again.

"Mm." Jeremy takes another sip of bourbon as he glares at Waylon through half-lidded eyes. Trying not to revel in how good it feels to put the other man in his place. "Though we wouldn't compensate you for the time you've already spent with us, and any of your Murkoff employee benefits would certainly be revoked."

"Oh, no, no. You're misunderstanding me, Mr Blaire." Waylon says with a shake of his head. The gesture shakes his hair out of its ponytail, and the way it frames his face is delicious.

He can't help himself. He's just a man, for fuck's sake. A man has fucking needs.

"Or perhaps..." Jeremy downs the rest of his drink and slams the glass down on his desktop. The sound makes Waylon flinch in his seat and it makes Jeremy's dick ache even more. "We can figure out some sort of agreement, hm? Just between the two of us."

Waylon stares up at Jeremy, doe eyes blinking slowly with uncertainty. Like he's a rabbit caught in a bear trap, and Jeremy is the fox about to pounce on him and devour him.

Jeremy rather likes that analogy.

"What kind of agreement, Mr Blaire?" Waylon manages to stutter out, his pretty, pink lips parted, and Jeremy can't help but grin.

"I think it should suit you just fine."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> third person, jer's perspective. descriptions of gore and brief rape mention.

Jeremy lets out a long sigh of satisfaction, a hand going down to curl into Waylon’s long, blonde hair as he leans back into his comfortable desk chair. 

Thick strands of pale blonde hair are silky and soft against his skin, and it’s so easy to pretend that he’s a woman when he’s looking down at the bobbing head in his lap.

Though Jeremy finds it strangely arousing that he’s a man.

Maybe that would be something to explore in the future.

Waylon was far quicker to get on his knees and pull down his supervisor’s pants than Jeremey had expected, and the older man is almost impressed. The poor bastard must have been that desperate to talk to his fucking kids again, he probably would have done anything for the chance at it.

A sick part of Jeremy’s mind regrets not asking him for more. 

He wonders how far he might have been able to push Waylon. What he would have done to hear the voice’s of his family again.

Though a messy blowjob in the middle of the afternoon is certainly a good place to start.

Waylon’s mouth is warm and wet and incredibly erotic. Parted lips stretch around the intrusion and his throat is the perfect tightness around Jeremy's cock and it only feels better when he swallows in the cute, panicked way when Jeremy pushes in deeper without any kind of warning, just to see him squirm. The low, slurping sound of it is quiet enough not to be distracting, and he takes a cock down like a fucking pro. 

Barely a whimper or a murmur.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this, Park.” Jeremy mumbles, mostly to himself, hips slowly jutting in time with Waylon’s bobbing head. His breathing is stuttered and had it been any other scenario, he would have been embarrassed that he was losing composure so quickly.

But for whatever reason, he isn’t too concerned with Waylon’s impression of him.

Jeremy attempts to sit forwards in his chair as he curls his fingers into Waylon’s hair, tighter and harder. Giving it a harsh pull as he presses himself further down the younger man’s throat, pushing Waylon’s head down and choking him.

Waylon doesn’t stop or even splutter. He just involuntarily moans around Jeremy's cock, his body shaking with a kind of pleasure that makes Jeremy smirk and his mind wander. 

He imagines hauling Waylon off of his knees and bending him over his desk, yanking his trousers down and binding his skinny, frail wrists together with his ratty looking belt. His own is real leather, Armani naturally, and just the thought of it touching Waylon's skin fills him with a kind of revolution. Maybe he’d choke him with it though, if Waylon asked especially nicely. Lead him around on in like the dog he was.

He imagines Waylon resisting, attempting to reason with him in some kind of way. Waylon was always trying to reason with people, his superiors, his coworkers, the shit-for-brained inmates who threw handfuls of jizz at him when they had the chance. He’d been that way since his interview. He was a mouthy bastard for someone who never fucking spoke. 

He imagines tearing Waylon's underwear off, since they probably weren't even branded and would fall apart under the smallest amount of stress, gagging him with them, and taking him like a fucking animal. 

He imagines plunging his cock into Waylon's dry ass, barely giving him a moment to prepare himself, and listening to him scream into the heavy fabric, relishing in the sound of his pain, quickly getting sodden with drool from his slack mouth. He can see his pretty, pale body arching on his desk when he shuts his eyes, and his mouth waters for it

He imagines Waylon's eyes rolling back into his head and him moaning in a disgusting kind of pleasure as he's brutally fucked by his boss. Maybe he would be able to convince himself it's rape for a minute, but when he feels Jeremy inside him, he knows how desperately he wants it. Maybe that's the most perfectly fucked up part of it, how much he wants it, even though he knows he should hate every second of it.

He imagines taking the letter opener from his desk, dangerously sharp and frankly inappropriate to own in this kind of professional context, and using it to slit open Waylon's shaking belly, painting his pale skin, the desk, the white carpets of his office, his Versace leather shoes, with crimson blood. 

He imagines taking his cock from Waylon's twitching, gaping asshole and pressing it into his tangling intestines, winding them around his length and giving himself another tight hole to fuck. Waylon wouldn't even know the difference and he’d moan with pleasure through the pain.

He imagines dragging the letter opener up Waylon's chest and pressing his hands into his organs, tearing out his heart and biting into the still beating muscle, devouring it in front of his wide, weeping eyes. Painting himself in Waylon’s blood and feeling it pour down his front, staining his shirt, his suit. 

Baptizing the monster that was slowly growing inside of his head.

The gruesome imagery is what pushes Jeremy over the edge. 

Heat curling in the pit of his stomach, he silently tugs Waylon’s head away and wraps his fingers around his own cock. Slowly jerking himself off, looking at the expectant look in Waylon’s wide eyes.

His lips, the drool and pre-cum dripping down his stubbly chin. The pink blush spreading over his pale cheeks and to the tips of his ears. The glazed over, half-lidded look he gives Jeremy as he stares up at him, waiting for him to finish. Breathing heavily, looking so perfectly whoreish that Jeremy struggles to retain any kind of composure.

For a split-second, he imagines that he’s holding Waylon’s decapitated head, his eyes dead and the colour quickly draining from his cheeks. His cock is painted with blood as he pulls out of the ragged neck stump.

He can’t hold back the smallest of groans as he cums across Waylon’s face.

It drips down his skin, disgustingly vicious, and he’s shaking, trembling even. He doesn’t seem happy with what he’s done, seems far less happy with the obvious tent in his pants that he’s attempting to hide.

Jeremy smirks to himself as Waylon yanks his shirt sleeves down past his hands and wipes his face with them. No doubt he’d change his wardrobe before he gets back to work with the IT grunts, but it’s fun to imagine that he’d walk around with dried cum on his clothes for the rest of the day.

And by fun, he means deeply arousing.

Waylon quickly stands to his feet, still wiping his face on his shirt, and tugging the tails of it down to try and cover his erection. He does a foul job and only succeeds in making it even more obvious. Jeremy wonders if Waylon is going to jerk off to this memory later.

“I’ll be sure to arrange a phone call for you then, Mr Park.” Jeremy says, a cruel smirk clear to his voice as he opens a drawer in his desk. A wooden box of good cigars sits at the bottom and he plucks one out idly. A sentimental zippo sits on his desk and he lights the end of it. 

Taking a deep drag with a sigh of pleasure.

“Thank you, Mr Blaire.” Waylon replies coldly, not turning back to him. 

“Oh, and Waylon?”

Waylon still doesn’t turn, until Jeremey lazily paces over to him in a haze of heavy cigar smoke. He slides a hand down Waylon’s back, letting it rest on the small, with his other hand gripping possessively at his skinny hip, urging his body back. Only then does Waylon look back at him, an almost frightened look in his brown eyes. 

Almost. There’s also a masochistic kind of hunger to them. The kind that Jeremy recognizes in every man or woman he’s ever fucked.

“If there are any more problems, please don’t hesitate to bring them up with me.” He breathes a mouthful of smoke into Waylon’s face and the hunger in Waylon’s eyes only becomes more intense.

“I’ll oversee them personally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate jeremy blaire with all of my being but when you're in the mood to just write patrick bateman level bullshit, he's a pretty good candidate
> 
> someone save waylon park 2kforever
> 
> didifrightenyou.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> i will stomp jeremy blaire to death with my hooves
> 
> didifrightenyou.tumblr.com


End file.
